10 Things
by Marie Phantom
Summary: A list, from Christine and Erik.


**A/N: I can't believe I'm dipping my foot back into Fanfiction's pond, given that I have more or less converted to AO3. But, despite the fact I still work over there, Fanfiction will still hold a place in my heart. That, and it's the only place where you can read really good POTO stories. So here I am again, tentatively committing myself to a POTO story that may or may not get written. In the meantime, please enjoy this!**

 **Disclaimer: Of course I don't own anything. Do you think I would be sitting here writing alternative fates for these two beauties if I did?**

 **10 Things**

He doesn't snore. Not once, not ever. It's probably due to his lack of a nose, but whilst it makes the occasionally cold a nightmare to deal with, snoring is completely off the table. It's a relief, to be honest. Growing up and listening to the more _experienced_ ballet rats, I always expected my future husband to cause he great discomfort at night. I expected snoring, sweatiness and general body odours.

But instead I get comfort and silence during sleep, whenever he isn't having a nightmare. And yes, occasionally he does pull he too close and I wake up with my face mashed against his bony chest, his arms wrapped around me in a death grip, but I am used to that. He told me once that he likes the smell of my shampoo, so I use is before I go to bed, and he buries his face into my curls and sniffs deeply. I know he tries to do so so that he may battle his demons at night, but I really don't mind. If I can provide any comfort for him, after so many years of horror and strife, then I will make it my life's mission to do so.

So Erik doesn't snore, and he occasionally has horrific nightmares, and he loves the smell of my hair. All of this, in exchange for that face, and I feel like I have defiantly got the better half of the bargain.

* * *

She takes very long baths. After a long day on her feet, especially now, she'll draw herself a hot bath and lounge around for a good hour before she decides to come out. She pins up her mass of hair with the jewelled combs I 'liberated' from Persia, and sit in the bath, humming whatever opera she is preforming in at the moment.

But she doesn't exclude me in this. She will leave the door open, and when the steam has wafted whatever scented oil she is using in her bath over to where I am in the house, I will abandon whatever I am doing and go and sit beside the bathtub, linking y fingers in hers. And we will talk, as a proper husband and wife does Her hair will inevitably frizz out, and she will permit me to run and brush through it. Sometimes, if I am very blessed, I get to play with her mass of curls, braiding it and putting it into buns, and she will laugh when I present her with the mirror to see whatever creations I have wrought in her hair. Ayesha will always follow in, and sometimes Christine will flick bubbles over the lip of the tub so Ayesha can chase them around.

If I'm incredibly lucky, and she if very tired and wants to rest her aches, I will disrobe and climb into the tub with her. She can rest herself against my chest, ignoring the cold and prominent bones and doze whilst I hum to her. I can wash her them, rubbing the flannel over her beautiful body, and marvel that once such as I gets to touch an angel like this. I know my face, and I know my body, and I know that I am indeed blessed. I can run my hands down her arms, over her breasts, and, depending on how tired she is, we can make love in that bathtub.

So I am grateful for her long baths, and how she watches me through her eyelashes. I enjoy seeing her relax, the stresses of the day washing free, and I feel pride in knowing that I can provide this for her. My darling wife, Christine.

* * *

His relationship with Nadir Khan seems to be one of mutual insults. When we first started courting, when we both know each too well and not at all, I was confused by Erik's relationship with Monsieur Khan. They seem to do nothing but snipe at each other, their insults growing to the extent in which one eventually leaves the room. But as I have come to know the man Erik call 'Daroga', I find myself re-evaluating their relationship.

They care for each other. Granted, it's a confused and sometimes brittle relationship, but Monsieur Khan travelled from Persia to Paris simply to make sure Erik was still alive. One doesn't do that unless there is some degree of affection involved. Whenever Monsieur Khan comes over of an evening, and I am sitting in the corner with either my libretto or my needlework, I get to enjoy watching the two of them engage in a battle of wits and insults.

"I see that you are still following me. Has it not occurred to you that I do not need a nursemaid anymore?"

Monsieur Khan shrugs. "Possibly, but I'll stop when you behave like an adult and not a child."

Erik's grip on the newspaper will shake, but it isn't over yet. "Your overall appearance as a mother hen is becoming more and more disturbing. Why, your nose is positively beak like!"

Monsieur Khan's lips will twitch. "Jealous I still have one?" He will quip. Erik newspaper will shred further, and Monsieur Khan will turn his head and share a small smirk with me. Erik is slowly learning to take as much as he gives, and this is one more example of how he is changing.

"I don't see how mentioning my face will make your argument stronger. 'Tis a miracle that anyone would want to stay around me for any length of time, let alone travel from Persia just to see if I am still alive." Erik mutters from behind his paper. I hold my breath, because I know what is about to come.

"Of course people would want to stay around you. It would make them feel better about the way they look!" Monsieur Khan says brightly.

 _Slam!_ Erik storms out of the drawing room, slamming the door, and not 5 minutes later we can both hear him banging out his Don Juan on the piano. I sigh and put down my embroidery, turning to Monsieur Khan and giving him a flat look.

He shrugs. "He'll get over it." He says and shakes out the paper that Erik has abandoned.

But there is some tenderness there, because Erik will forgive Nadir and invite him around for supper next week. And whenever the anniversary's for Rookheya's and Reza's death comes around, and Monsieur Khan arrives at our door looking drawn and wan, Erik will install him in the chair closest to the fire and push a large glass of brandy into his hand, never mind Monsieur Khan's religious views. And Erik will talk about trivial matters, until Monsieur's Khan either passes out or he starts talking back.

Erik, for all that he really does prefer solitude (and myself), does feel the great tenderness of friendship for Nadir Khan. The man saved his life, and Erik, I know, would be devastated if Monsieur Khan were to ever leave.

* * *

She still talks to herself in Swedish. For all that she speaks French without an accent, she still reverts to her native tongue whenever she gets the chance. We have a maid and a cook now, but Christine still occasionally wants to make food from her native country. When that desire arises, and it happens more often now, she will walk around the kitchen with her hair pinned back, and sing to herself in Swedish.

It is a pleasant language to listen to, and although I cannot speak it, I can understand a little. So when she does this, making her sweet kanenbulle and vaniljhjärtan, I will stand by the door and listen to her sing to herself.

" _Dansa i en ring, dansa i en ring,_ _  
_ _dansa i en ring, dansa i en ring,_ _  
_ _dansa alla, dansa alla,_ _  
_ _dansa alla i en ring._

 _Dansa en och en, dansa en och en,_ _  
_ _dansa en och en, dansa en och en,_ _  
_ _dansa alla, dansa alla,_ _  
_ _dansa alla i en ring._ _Dansa två och två, dansa två och två,_ _  
_ _dansa två och två, dansa två och två,_ _  
_ _dansa alla, dansa alla,_ _  
_ _dansa alla i en ring._ _Dansa tre och tre, dansa tre och tre,_ _  
_ _dansa tre och tre, dansa tre och tre,_ _  
_ _dansa alla, dansa alla,_ _  
_ _dansa alla i en ring."_

There will inevitably be flour in her hair, and when I can resist no longer, I walk over and trap her in my arms.

"Erik!" She exclaims, but melts into my arms and leans back against my chest. Cinnamon and vanilla war in the air for dominant scent, and everything is peaceful in my world.

"You were singing again." I whisper into her ear.

"I sing everyday. It is my job." She says, humming and swaying in my arms. I sway with her.

"But you rarely sing in Swedish."

"I don't really speak it anymore." She says with a sigh. I bury my unmasked face inter her curls, and sniff. She has been using the lavender scented shampoo again, and her fragrance fills me with joy.

"You should. You should never stop speaking Swedish. It is important to you. It is where you come from."

"Even though I don't look Swedish at all?" She asks. I turn her in my arms and brush my thumb under her blue eyes.

"You have Swedish eyes. And a Vikings stubbornness." I add, and then laugh as she swats me.

"Tell me how so?" She demands.

"You never stopped letting me court you. You were determined to make me yours, despite me face."

"Hmmm." Christine tilts her heads, and then grins. "Yes, I will concede to that. The moment I realised I loved you, you were going to be my husband one way or another."

I gather her in my arms again and let her rest her head on my shoulder. We watched the oven with eager eyes, and Christine starts humming the song again. The house is full of beautiful smells, and my wife is singing in Swedish.

* * *

He doesn't think I know about Persia. He has tried, the entire time he has known he, to keep most aspects of his past secret, but I know most of it. He has told me about his mother, especially since we found out the news, and about Giovanni and what happened to Luciana. Erik has even told me about the gypsies and what he did to escape.

But that 10 year period when he left the Opera house, after his time in Italy, was always something he would gloss over. He told me that he was recruited by the Shah, that Nadir Khan was sent to bring him and they slowly became friends. But he will not tell me about what he did.

He doesn't want to sully me about his past as the Angel of Doom.

But I do know. I have managed to weasel it out of Nadir, out of Erik occasionally, and although I do not have a complete picture, I know enough. I know about the Sultana, about the Shah, I even know about the torture chamber.

I know about the morphine, I have seen the scars on Erik's arms and how he doesn't even touch painkillers, not even last year when he broke a finger moving scenery on the stage and someone dropped one end. Erik had simply wrapped the finger and tried to move on, but it was through a combination of Madame Giry, Monsieur Khan and myself that convinced him to both see a doctor and take something for the pain. The final argument was that, without proper treatment, he might never be able to play the violin again.

I have seen the Angel of Doom, when he killed Buquet, and that terrible hour on the roof when I had to convince him to come back. Raoul was there, trying to convince me to leave him alone, but I know my husband. He came back and thinks that all I saw was a slip in character. But Nadir has told me, of what he used to be like when he killed, the manic energy and despair that ran through him in equal measure. Those crazed gold eyes, more black than gold, which stared at me and didn't recognise his wife.

I am not as much of an angel as Erik likes to think I am. I have a temper and can be occasionally selfish. The death of my father left my cynical and wretched, so much so that Erik's first attempts to be the Angel of Music were met with scorn and derision. But I will be the person Erik wishes I could be, and I can draw him back whenever he gets too deep into the Angel of Dooms mind. Persia has left its mark, as a physical reminder (Ayesha's collar boasts a diamond the size of my thumbnail, and nowhere else in Paris do you find such sumptuous rugs) and in the nightmares Erik suffers from, when he cries out for forgiveness.

I know more about Persia than I could ever admit to Erik, and every time he stumbles from the path of greatness I know he is walking on, I will be the one to bring him back.

* * *

She cannot lie. At all. For someone whose primary job is of the stage, which is a profession in which lying is at its core, when it comes to off the stage, she is appalling. She doesn't meet a person's eye, twists her hands together, and bites her lip.

It used to amuse me, when as a young woman, she would attempt to explain to the voice she learnt from why she was late. Even when I knew the reason (usually gossiping with Meg Giry), she would attempt to spin a story, and every single time she would look at the floor, mumble through her lips and twist her hands together. Even as fond of her I was then, I still reprimanded her for her tardiness. I would not do for me to become lenient, not when I could hear the potential in her voice.

Even during our courtship and eventually marriage she has been unable to lie well. I always know when she is concealing something, whether it be a present ("A new scarf, Erik. I think it will suit you well.") or something more serious ("I didn't get the part.")

On the stage, she is magnificent. She can convince an audience of anything, even that is a young man when she played Serafimo in _Il Muto_. Now she is the Prima Donna, she can bring even the hardiest man to tears. She sings with the angels, she weeps, she disappears into her character utterly.

But outside? She can't even keep a dinner menu secret. I can come back from a meeting with the managers, Claudine the cook having been dismissed for the evening as Christine cooks dinner for me, and ask the most innocuous of questions.

"That smell wonderful, my dear. What are we having?" I ask as I lay my jacket over the back of the sofa and unbutton my cuffs.

"Nothing!" She says quickly, slightly too high pitched as she manoeuvres around the furniture to give me a kiss. I raise a non-existent eyebrow.

"Nothing? Those delicious vapours come from nothing?" I tease. And her hands start to twist together.

"It's a surprise." She mumbles, and I bite back a grin. I settle myself at the desk in the corner and take out the new contracts the managers want me to review. I know I only need to wait.

Not 5 minutes pass before Christine gives in. I am usually pretending to be deep into my work, occasionally scratching Ayesha's head as she butts for attention, when finally Christine, who has gone through the entire lying process, will blurt out our dinner menu. I never complain, Christine is a good cook and she always makes sure there are things I will like, but it is amusing watching her try to conceal the truth from me.

I do not want there to be a lie in this marriage. Not with her. She is everything I could ever have hoped for, everything I ever wanted, and for there to be a lie would break us apart. I have not told her about Persia, wanting to spare her that, but she knows about Luciana and the gypsies. She even knows about my poor, unhappy mother.

So I am grateful that Christine is a bad lyer. I am grateful that she has so many tells, for all that playing cards against her tends to go very quickly. I am glad of this, because it meant that, when I finally found out she was pregnant, it was something that I had been preparing for. I was something I had anticipated, despite the unfortunate timing.

My feelings regarding the baby range from happiness to terror, but luckily, I am a much better lyer than she is.

* * *

He measures my waist every day. He usually wakes up before me, and will wait until I wake up. Then, when I have rubbed the sleep from my eyes, he will draw me out of bed and walk me to the sunniest part of the bedroom, to where the window spills in light from the new day. We are secluded here, the gardener doesn't arrive until 9am, and so we are alone.

When I am positioned as he wishes, Erik will draw up my nightgown, exposing my body to his gaze. I will bunch the material under my breasts, and, completely unabashed, Erik will draw out the tape measure and pencil and paper he keeps in his bedside table for this purpose. He will gently measure my waist, and then note down the measurement on the paper with that day's date. Depending on how we both feel, we might complete my disrobing entirely and make love, or Erik will bring down my nightdress, place a kiss first on the growing bump and then on my lips, and we will go about our day.

After the business with Matré, and since moving out from beneath the Opera House, Erik has done this every day. I was surprised, that first morning at Nadir Khans, when he drew me over to the window and removed my shift, taking in my new figure before measuring my waist. We were both recovering from all that had happened, and I wonder now if that first time was some aspect of the hysteria that we shared during that dreadful time. Erik wanting to reassure himself of the existence of his child, the fact that he won against that dreadful man. But he has continued to do so since, and I have asked him.

"Why do you measure my stomach?" I asked one morning. We were both flushed from lovemaking, and Erik was resting his head on my breasts, listening to the fast beat of my heart.

There was a silence, before Erik lifted his head. His black hair was in disarray, and I idly smoothed it back off his forehead before cupping his gaunt cheek.

"I am…worried." He said finally. I frowned.

"About the baby?"

Erik nodded. "And you. I am worried that the baby might…" He tailed off, but I knew what he was going to say.

"I don't care what the baby will look like." I said fiercely. "If this child has even half of your talent and goodness, then they will rule the world."

Erik huffed a laugh. "And why are you worried about me?" I asked.

"You have told me how your mother died. You told me how your father told you, you were small, how difficult your birth was. I don't want that to happen to you. I record your size so that you may correspond with the projected growth charts, so I know that nothing will go wrong."

There was nothing I could say to that, and Erik eventually moved away, going to wash himself up. I leant up on my elbows (not an easy thing to do now) and watched his thin back move. I trailed my eyes down his buttocks, down his legs and back up again. He was never going to be conventually attractive, but some of that skeletal thinness had disappeared, and now he merely appeared gaunt. The scars of his past were stark white and pink again the yellow of his skin, but they were simply skin now.

Erik finished washing his face and turned, seeing me lying on the bed with not a stitch of clothing on. I ran a hand down my stomach, over the small swell and cupped it, and I could see how much this excited him. I grinned as he stalked towards the bed, crawling until he loomed over me again.

"Are you trying to seduce me, my wife?" He whispered.

I nodded, and he bent down to capture my lips in a fierce kiss.

When we finished for a second time, I rested my head against his shoulder, and, capturing his hand in time, I whispered "I am not going to die. You and I are going to have a large family, and we shall see grandchildren and great-grandchildren."

Erik nodded, but I know the next morning he will draw me over to that patch of sun and measure my stomach. I will allow it, not only because of the thrill I get when I see proof on paper than my baby is showing, but also because I know that it reassures Erik of the future. We will continue, and I will let Erik do whatever he has to do to make sure this happens.

* * *

She takes such good care of our baby. She may have some slightly odd cravings, such as pickled cucumbers on rye bread. She may be slowly cutting back on her performances on the stage the bigger she gets, and I know that she wants to spend at least 6 months with the baby before she comes back, but despite the blazing argument we had regarding her time at the Opera, I know that she wants to do so to take care of the baby.

She still sings at home, still in lilting Swedish, but she has now progressed into sweet lullabies, and when she is not at the Opera house, she sits in the rocking chair in the nursery and stares out of the window, stroking her stomach and smiling. I know she worries about childbirth and the danger that represents. Her mother died, and she was left to be raised by her father.

I will not let that happen. She is my wife and my partner in all things, and thus, we will go into parenthood together.

She knits. She's been knitting socks since we moved into the new house, and whilst my own pair of lambswool socks are very nice to wear on a cold winters day, the sets haven been getting progressively smaller. It's not only socks too, but hats and tiny mittens.

"You're preparing everything, aren't you?" I ask one day, coming into the room after watching her from the doorway. The early summer sunshine is beating in through the window, and she has eschewed a corset for a light and airy gown of cotton, with short sleeves. Her skin is milk white despite the sun, and I can't help but press a kiss to hey brow before sitting myself on the seat on the windowsill.

"I want to be prepared." She sighs, setting don her knitting and stroking the swell of her belly. It is now quite large, and she has finally been forced to give up her time at the Opera to her understudy.

"My dear, our child has enough clothing to last until middle age." I say with a smile, and Christine laughs softly.

"That doesn't mean I can't help them along." She leans over with a grunt and takes my hand, placing it on her belly. I spread my long fingers and gasp when I feel a particularly strong kick lift my palm.

"It is certainly active today." I whisper.

"He." Christine says.

"You are so certain."

"A mother knows these things." Christine rocks the chair softly and keeps my hand on her belly. I stroke the cotton softly, and we pass some time like that, just the two of us together in the sunlight.

She takes walks every day, even when I am not there. To my consternation, there is an endless parade of visitors in our home, from the Giry's to de Changy. Daroga even visits, and many times I have come in from work and seen then taking a turn in the evening sun, heads bent together and whispering. Christine knows how solitary I am, but when I asked her about these visitors, she gave me an answer that floored me.

"I don't want out child to be lonely." She said, taking my hand in bed and kissing the palm. "You grew up in terrible circumstances, and I was a lonely child until I came to the Opera house. Even though I want out child to have many siblings, I also want them to be surrounded by friends. I never want them to lack for company, for people to rely on, for people to talk to. I never want our child to have to make it through life with no direction, with no security from anyone. I want them to have many companions, from the de Changy's and the children of the Opera house, from the people they meet and the families they will marry in to. I never want them to have the childhood we had."

My throat closes up and all I can do is nod, but Christine understands. She is such a good mother, such a good wife, and our children will be blessed from having known her.

* * *

I love him. I love him so very much.

From the moment I saw him first, nearly 4 years after our lessons began. A tall, thin man in a mask which covered his face, save his lips and chin, and dressed him black. A mysterious figure, and yet, when he moved a girl out of my face, all I could sense from him was tenderness.

Our courtship wasn't conventual, our marriage even less so, which tends to happen when ones partner lives beneath an Opera house and has little claim to citizenship. We have a unique marriage, and whilst we are both stubborn and this can lead to blazing arguments, we always make up before going to bed.

We both want music. But he was my drive to be Prima Donna, he was the one that inspired my voice. I could have just been a member of the chorus, but he told me I could be better. He made me want, and now I am the Prima Donna of the Opera Populaire. All thanks to him.

He will never be handsome. What God granted him in genius, he took away from looks. And although this led to a hard life, I know in my heart that everything led to this moment, that of us lying in bed together, cradling my swollen stomach and the baby within.

We will still argue. We will still create music. He will inspire me to sing until I can gracefully retire, and then we will compose together. I know that he will make sure our children will want for nothing. He will be a great father, be everything his mother couldn't be, and I know that nothing will every be so wonderful to him as his family.

My Erik. My husband. I love him so much.

* * *

I love her.

Oh, how I love her!

From that moment I saw her, alone on that stage, practicing her dancing on that lonely New Years Eve, when she finally saw me, I knew that she was meant to be my wife. I know that she could have chosen anyone else, and yet, she chose to stay with the deformed madman who lived beneath her feet.

She is beautiful. She is beauty itself, and when she sings she transports me to Heaven. I can only be a dog at her feet, and yet, she makes me want to be a better man. A human, something that I long thought of as an impossible dream. We create magic together, magic that I can show to the world. All thanks to her.

I have a wife, and a home in the light. I can take her out for a walk on Sundays, and have friends over for dinner. I can be a normal man, a husband and father, and I can do so in the knowledge that Christine will be all the better for it. I have a job, and a family, and Christine is the cause.

I am ugly as sin, and yet she still kisses my face before we sleep and when we wake up. She allows my touches from my deaths hands, holds them close to her skin when the baby kicks. She welcomes me into her, clutches me close and sighs into my skin. I hold her tenderly, and stroke her mass of curls, and, when she is asleep, weep for the divine pleasure that she has granted me.

She is convinced that I endured my life to be with her, just as I am convinced that she was put on this earth for me. She could have chosen a much handsomer man, someone with a title perhaps, but instead, she walked into the darkness with me and drew me into the light.

I love her. I love my wife. I love my Swedish songbird, my Prima Donna. She who has given me this hope, this future within her. She is everything I could ever hope for and more, and now, as I watch her cradle our son and hold them both within my arms, I realise that my previous love has only grown.

Oh Christine, my Christine! How I love my wife!

 **A/N: As some of you may have picked up, there are hints of a wider story. I may be in the planning stages atm, and if I do actually write it, the ending has been completely spoiled by this thing. But, as anyone on AO3 who follows me will know, I will never not write a happy ending, even if the intervening bits turn you to tears. I have 3 stories going on at AO3, two more in the planning stages on that site, so whether I have the time for a POTO multichapter in-between those and uni work is a question. But this story has been beating at my brain for ages, so who knows. Maybe y'all see something sooner rather than later!**

 **Anyone who fancies leaving a review would send me into ecstasies. Cheers!**


End file.
